


The Press Corps

by kjack89



Series: The West Wing AU [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Politics, Alternate Universe - The West Wing Fusion, Developing Relationship, Established Relationship, Flirting, M/M, Oval Office, The West Wing AU, Trust Issues, prior relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-11
Updated: 2014-06-11
Packaged: 2018-02-04 07:04:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1770043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjack89/pseuds/kjack89
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>The West Wing</em> AU. Courfeyrac, a journalist with whom Combeferre has a past, returns from abroad and joins the White House Press Corps, which is going to make Combeferre's job as Press Secretary a <em>lot</em> more interesting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Press Corps

**Author's Note:**

> Based on an amalgamation of several West Wing episodes, but no knowledge of the show is needed. Combeferre is Press Secretary, Courfeyrac is a White House correspondent, Enjolras is President, and Grantaire is the First Gentleman.
> 
> Usual disclaimer - I own neither Les Mis nor The West Wing. Please be kind and tip your fanfic writers in the form of comments and/or kudos!

“Good morning, everyone,” Combeferre said, rifling through his notes as he stepped up to the podium. “It’s a slow news day, so I know that means you’re all going to be looking for a story, but I am very sorry to inform you that you will have to look elsewhere. However, I have  _all_  the details on what President Enjolras and the First Gentleman are wearing to the gala tonight, which I just  _know_  is going to thrill you.” General laughter broke out at that announcement and Combeferre cleared his throat. “The President will be wearing a black Tom Ford tuxedo with a red pocket square. He has asked me to remind you that the question of his footwear is one he feels deeply uncomfortable answering, and one he prefers to keep between him and his husband.” The assembled journalists broke out in laughter again, and Combeferre allowed himself a droll smile. “Speaking of the First Gentleman, Grantaire will be wearing—”

He broke off, looking out at the group of journalists. “Courfeyrac, is that you?”

From the middle row, the journalist gave Combeferre a small wave and a dimpled grin. “That’d be me.”

“You’re back in the country?” Courfeyrac rolled his eyes and nodded, and Combeferre asked, “Are you working for the Chicago Tribune now?”

Courfeyrac looked confused. “No.”

“Then you want to get your ass out of their chair?”

The whole room broke out into even louder laughter as Courfeyrac slowly stood, arching an eyebrow at Combeferre. “There’s assigned seating?” he asked, edging his way out of the row.

Combeferre returned his raised eyebrow. “Do you see the little brass plaques with the names of media outlets on the front of the seats? They don’t just mean that they made a generous contribution. Find a seat in the back.”

Courfeyrac fired him a mock-salute and made his way to the back while Combeferre turned back to his notes. “As I was saying, because I know you’re all on the edge of your seats waiting for this, the First Gentleman will be wearing a three-piece charcoal Armani…”

Combeferre went through the entire rest of the wardrobe for the President and his husband before trying to get back to his office, though not before the journalist from  _InStyle_  magazine hounded him over the President’s choice not to disclose his shoe choice. Finally, though, he made it back to his office, only to freeze when he saw Courfeyrac sitting in his chair and waiting for him. “Oh,” Combeferre said, closing his door behind him. “It’s you.”

Courfeyrac grinned at him, that patented dimpled grin that even after as long as Courfeyrac had been away still made Combeferre’s heart beat faster. “That it is,” he said easily.

“You’re sitting in my chair,” Combeferre said, in lieu of giving Courfeyrac a different avenue of conversation.

Courfeyrac just raised an eyebrow at him and leaned back in the chair. “Well, there wasn’t a plaque on it. And besides, I was hoping you might be able to fill me in on the scintillating details of what material the First Gentleman’s pocket square is made of.”

Combeferre just snorted and shook his head. “Oh, how I’ve missed you. You’ve been gone, what, six months?”

“Try more like two years,” Courfeyrac said dryly. “I left just after the election, remember?”

For a moment, Combeferre’s jaw tightened, as if he did indeed remember. But then his face smoothed out into an unreadable expression as he shooed Courfeyrac out of his seat and plopped down. “So what happened? Got tired of traveling around Asia?”

Courfeyrac shrugged. “Well, I got kicked out of Kyrgyzstan, for starters.”

Combeferre snorted. “Is there a developing country you  _haven’t_  been kicked out of?”

“Hey, I’ve been kicked out of plenty of industrialized nations, too,” Courfeyrac said defensively, though he was smiling. “And then after that, I was working on a narcotics trafficking ring throughout Laos, Thailand, and more. But then, well, long story short, the yakuza put a hit out on me and the US State Department thought it was time to send me home.” He shrugged again and leaned back in his chair. “Anyway, I’m assigned to the White House Press Corps until they can find me, you know, a job reporting on actual news.”

“Ouch,” Combeferre said easily, grabbing his cup of coffee and taking a sip. “No offense taken, of course.” He looked appraisingly at Courfeyrac. “So why did you want to see me?”

Courfeyrac smirked at him. “Well, at first I honestly thought about asking about what wool-blend the President’s suit was going to be made of, since it really is a slow news day, but then a piece of news came to my attention. Did you notice the protesters across the street this morning?”

Combeferre blinked at him. “What protesters?”

“Ormolu.”

“Gesundheit,” Combeferre said, still looking incredulously at him. “What the hell is ormolu, and why are people protesting it?”

Courfeyrac’s smirk widened. “What, you don’t know?”

Combefere sighed and rubbed his forehead. “Why do I get the feeling that my one o’clock briefing is going to be all about ormolu protesters?”

“I doubt it will be  _all_  about it,” Courfeyrac pointed out. “There is going to be at least one determined individual who will ask about the President’s shoes. Besides, if I had  _really_  wanted this to be a news item, I would have asked you this question in front of 24 White House press reporters and watched you not answer it.”

Combeferre frowned at him. “What, am I supposed to thank you?”

“It wouldn’t hurt,” Courfeyrac said easily, standing up and rapping his knuckles against Combeferre’s desk. “I know I’m not exactly thrilled to be here, but it  _is_  good to see you again. It’s been a long time.”

“Yeah,” Combeferre muttered, watching as Courfeyrac walked away. “It’s been too long, and not long enough.” He sighed and picked up his phone to call the White House communications director, Feuilly. “Feuilly, do you have any clue what ormolu is?”

* * *

 

Combeferre’s grip on the podium was deathly tight, and it took all of his self-control not to glare at Courfeyrac, sitting in the back row. “Ormolu is gilded bronze. Bronze covered in gold. And the White House happens to have one of the largest collections of ormolu in the world.”

The reporter from the Washington Post raised her hand. “So why the protestors?”

“Well, these are items ranging from antiquity to the early nineteenth century, and spanning across continents, most specifically Asia. In more Western climes, though, the process of gilding bronze involved using mercury, which caused many workers to go blind or to even die from mercury poisoning. So in some circles, ormolu is seen as a symbol the tyrannical oppression of the working classes.” He paused before adding, a little sarcastically, “But we most use them as centerpieces with a nice floral arrangement.”

Though the crowd mostly laughed, the New York Times’ reporter’s hand shot into the air. “Is the President concerned that this might send the wrong message, since he campaigned on better worker conditions and fair trade?”

Combeferre had to consciously avoid looking at Courfeyrac, who let out what sounded like a hastily disguised laugh. “I’ll be honest with you, I haven’t run this by the President yet, but I’ll have that for you with the post-Gala wrap-up tonight at around 9 or 10.”

He left the podium, stalking past Courfeyrac, who was grinning, and who quickly stood to follow him. “So that was something,” Courfeyrac said cheerfully.

Combeferre gritted his teeth. “You’re a rabble rouser, did you know that? I went and looked at your big ormolu demonstration. It was six people in Lafayette park with one poster lettered with magic markers.”

“I never claimed it was Selma, Alabama, or anything like that,” Courfeyrac said, still smirking.

Combeferre got to his office and whirled around, glaring at him. “Six people! Six pathetic people protesting on a Friday and you just lent their weak and feeble voices a megaphone! What do you call that?”

Courfeyrac shrugged. “Ordinarily, I refer to it as a job well done.”

“You’re very proud of yourself,” Combeferre sniped, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

Winking at him, Courfeyrac said, a little smugly, “Yeah. I am.” He took a step closer to Combeferre. “So what are  _you_  wearing to the gala tonight?”

Combeferre stared at him. “Your paper wants to know what I’m wearing tonight?”

“It’s not for my paper,” Courfeyrac told him dryly. “It’s for me.”

If Combeferre had been staring incredulously before, he looked downright aghast now. “You want to know what I’m wearing?”

Courfeyrac gave him a genuine smile, no hint of a smirk, and cocked his head slightly. “Yeah. I do.”

“Well, I’m — I’m wearing — a suit,” Combeferre said, stumbling slightly over the words and blushing. “A blue suit. Navy blue. Calvin Klein. Simple. Understated.”

“Sounds nice,” Courfeyrac told him, putting his hands in his pockets and slowly starting to back away, still smiling. “I’ll be looking forward to seeing you in it.”

Combeferre blinked. “Right. Well. Ok, then. I’ve got to go deal with the ormolu crazies.” He watched Courfeyrac stroll away before turning and almost walking into his closed office door. “Jesus Christ,” he swore, yanking the door open and going inside, determined to keep Courfeyrac far away from his thoughts.

* * *

 

True to his word, Combeferre showed up at the gala that night dressed in a navy blue Calvin Klein suit, sipping cautiously from a glass of champagne as he glanced around the room. He asked a passing waitperson, “Excuse me. Have you seen the First Gentleman?”

“Combeferre!”

Combeferre looked up to see Grantaire waving at him, impeccably dressed in the same three-piece charcoal Armani suit that Combeferre had been forced to painstakingly describe to the press. “Good evening, Mr. Grantaire,” Combeferre said courteously.

One of the biggest difficulties in Enjolras’s presidency was all of their friends being forced to call him ‘Mr. President’ or ‘President Enjolras’ in public, and Grantaire ‘Mr. Grantaire’ or ‘the First Gentleman’. It was hard to reconcile those titles with the memories Combeferre had of Grantaire and Enjolras making out at a fraternity party freshman year of college.

As if recognizing Combeferre’s train of thought, Grantaire nudged him companionably. “Nice threads. But you could stand to loosen up a little. Loosen your tie, take off your jacket…”

“Yes, sir,” Combeferre said, smiling. “I’ll keep that in mind for after the gala.”

Grantaire snorted and shook his head. “Yeah. Ok. It wouldn’t surprise me if you slept in a suit, you know.” He gave Combeferre a sideways glance. “So what’s on your mind? I heard you wanted a word.”

Combeferre nodded. “I spoke to your personal secretary about the ormolu. You might get a few questions about it.”

Grantaire sighed and shook his head. “I’m not embarrassed by the ormolu, other than how tacky some of the pieces are, and how, generally, they tend not to match the decor. But it’s not like we spent new money on it. And besides, it’s our history, for better or for worse. And I’m not going to lock it in a basement or brush it with a new coat of paint. It’d send a far worse message if we did.”

Combeferre gave him an appraising look. “Good answer.”

Shaking his head, Grantaire let out a low chuckle. “Well, I did  _occasionally_ pay attention when Enjolras talked.” He looked at Combeferre again. “But I have a feeling you didn’t just want to talk to me about gilded bronze.”

Combeferre shrugged and looked away, his grip on his champagne glass tightening. “Courfeyrac’s back in town,” he said quietly.

Grantaire looked at him sharply. “I’d ask whether this is a problem or not, but judging by the fact that you look like you’re about to shatter a piece of late nineteenth century stemware with your bare hands, I think that speaks for itself.”

It was Combeferre’s turn to shake his head, and he didn’t meet Grantaire’s eyes when he muttered, “Yeah, well. It’s been a long time.”

“Since he left? Since you two broke up? Or since you stopped loving him?” Grantaire asked shrewdly, before adding, more conversationally, “Of course, I don’t think the latter option’s actually happened yet, and I actually have money riding on that fact, so.”

Combeferre glared at Grantaire, who just shrugged and met his glare coolly. Sighing, Combeferre shook his head again. “It’s complicated.” He managed a small smile for Grantaire. “And thanks for your support, sir.”

Grantaire laughed and clapped Combeferre on the shoulder. “Look, if you and I can stand here with you unironically referring to me as ‘sir’ after all we’ve been through, I think you and Courfeyrac can work things out. I believe in you.” Combeferre raised an eyebrow at him and Grantaire snorted. “I told you — Enjolras has rubbed off on me.”

He patted Combeferre’s shoulder once more before heading into the crowd of people, assumedly in search of Enjolras. Combeferre just shook his head and drained his glass of champagne.

* * *

 

“That is a nice suit.”

Combeferre didn’t even look up from where he was going over last minute notes on a developing situation in Indiana that had come up in the final hour of the gala. “You’re not supposed to be back here right now.”

Courfeyrac leaned against Combeferre’s office door, arms crossed in front of his chest. “WPTA is reporting that an FBI agent has been shot in some kind of hostage situation.”

“We’ll have a statement in 15 minutes,” Combeferre said quietly, the words clearly meant as a dismissal.

Courfeyrac frowned. “What’s going on, Combeferre?”

Abruptly, Combeferre stood, gathering his notes together. “Did you not hear me when I said that we’ll have a statement in 15 minutes? For Christ’s sake, Courfeyrac.”

“Did I do something wrong?”

Combeferre shook his head. “That depends,” he snapped. “Are you flirting with me because you want a story, or because you mean it?”

Courfeyrac stared at him. “Because I mean it, of course. Are you kidding me? Do you honestly think I would, what,  _use_  you for a story? I thought you would know me better than that.”

“I thought I did know you better than that,” Combeferre returned, his voice frosty. “But that was a few years ago, and a lot’s changed.”

“But I haven’t changed,” Courfeyrac shot back.

Combeferre gave him a look. “And how would  _I_  know that?” he asked quietly. “You  _left_. After all we had been through, everything we had done with the campaign, you just up and left to go gallivanting across the world without a second thought to me, or to anyone.”

Courfeyrac shook his head. “I had an opportunity and I took it,” he said quietly. “I was never going to be a part of Enjolras’s Cabinet, or be an advisor — I don’t have the temperament for it.”

“That’s bullshit,” Combeferre shot back. “You would have been an amazing Press Secretary, so much better than I ever could be. But when you left, I had to step up to do this, leaving Bahorel stuck as Chief of Staff, and yeah, he does an amazing job of keeping everyone in line and he’s gotten a lot better at picking his fights, but still. Enjolras needed you! I needed you. And you just — left.”

After a long moment, Courfeyrac said quietly, “Yeah, I did. I left. And I’m sorry for what that caused for you, and for everyone.” He paused before adding, “But I’m back now. And if you don’t want to deal with that, that’s your problem.” He paused again and allowed himself a small smile before saying, “Besides, I think you’re a better Press Secretary than you give yourself credit for. I thought you did well with the ormolu scandal.”

Combeferre shot him a scathing look. “You  _caused_  the ormolu scandal.”

“I can’t fully deny it,” Courfeyrac said cheerfully. “Besides, you look damn good in that suit, and that’s half the battle.” He turned away, pausing to add in a gentler tone, “I hope the FBI agent pulls through.”

Combeferre just sighed and shook his head. “15 minutes, Courfeyrac.”

* * *

 

The next day, Combeferre sat at his desk, running his hands through his hair. “Combeferre,” Courfeyrac said loudly from the doorway, and Combeferre looked up, startled.

“How is it that my staff just lets you walk back here without trying to stop you?” he asked with a sigh.

Courfeyrac grinned at him. “They like me.” He cocked his head slightly, looking at Combeferre closely. “How are you doing this morning?”

Combeferre stood up and brushed past Courfeyrac as he left his office. “Why don’t you cut to the chase: what do you need?”

“I heard the President had a few choice words for Vice President Pontmercy during the Cabinet meeting.”

Combeferre stopped in his tracks, turning to glare at Courfeyrac. “From who?”

Courfeyrac smirked at him. “It’s ‘from whom’. And I’m not going to just roll on my source.” They started walking again until Courfeyrac asked off-handedly, “Hey, do you want to have dinner with me tonight?”

“What?” Combeferre asked, distracted. “No. Tell me more about the Cabinet meeting.”

Courfeyrac sighed. “Fine. Did the confrontation happen?”

Combeferre glanced at him. “On the record?” Courfeyrac rolled his eyes and nodded. “Absolutely not. President Enjolras and Vice-President Pontmercy have nothing but the utmost respect for each other.”

“And off the record?”

It was Combeferre’s turn to roll his eyes at Courfeyrac. “You know both Enjolras and Marius. What do you think?”

“A valid point,” Courfeyrac said, shaking his head slightly as he laughed. “Yet you won’t have dinner with me.”

Combeferre frowned at him. “I fail to see how the two are related.”

He made as if to walk away, but Courfeyrac followed him, keeping up a steady stream of reasons why Combeferre should change his mind on dinner. “I’m a very good-looking guy. I mean, I don’t mean to brag, but people do tend to point it out. I like seafood and sushi and basically all kinds of food. I really like food. And, of course, I’m a lively conversationalist and well-traveled, with lots of different experiences to draw on. And I don’t know if you know this, because I’ve only picked it up recently, but I can fence. Not as good as Grantaire, of course, but I’m getting there.”

Stopping again, Combeferre sighed and looked at Courfeyrac. “I can’t, Courf.”

“But that’s my point,” Courfeyrac said eagerly. “I can teach you.”

Combeferre punched his shoulder, none too gently. “No, you idiot, I mean I can’t have dinner with you.”

“Oh,” Courfeyrac said, his smile fading slightly before he shook his head and gave Combeferre a wider grin. “Ok, then. I’ll talk to you later.”

He turned and left, leaving Combeferre staring after him, looking almost conflicted.

* * *

 

Later that day, Combeferre sat down next to Courfeyrac where he was typing something on his laptop, seated at the press table. “Hello.”

“This is a change of pace,” Courfeyrac said without looking up. “Normally I’m the one interrupting you when you’re working.”

Combeferre ignored that. “May I discuss your story for a moment?”

Courfeyrac stopped typing and glanced up at Combeferre. “About the Cabinet meeting?” He shrugged and sat back in his chair. “Fire away.”

“We know who your source is. And it’s not a cabinet officer. Meaning the person responsible for the story can easily be fired.” Courfeyrac looked stricken for a moment, before Combeferre pressed on, telling him, “The President would appreciate it if you wouldn’t pursue the story, and to show his gratitude, he can give you thirty minutes on any subject that you like.”

Sitting back in his chair slowly, Courfeyrac tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Well, that sounds good, but it’s not quite good enough.” He met Combeferre’s eyes. “Anyone gets fired over this, and I’m going to write a story on why.”

Combeferre hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “So we’ve got a deal.”

“Do we need to shake on it?” Courfeyrac asked, smiling slightly.

Combeferre smiled as well, a little relieved. “No, I trust you…on this.” He stood. “When do you want to talk to Enjolras? I know that you may want to save your half hour alone with the President for when there’s an important story, but I know that he probably wouldn’t mind seeing you. When you get a chance, anyway.”

Courfeyrac shrugged and stood as well. “Well, the story I’ve been working on has been squashed by the man, so I have some free time right now…”

“Sounds good. I’ll take you up there.”

Together, they walked in silence up to the West Wing, pausing outside of the Oval Office for Combeferre to ask Enjolras’s secretary, “Mr. Mabeuf, is Enjolras free?”

Mabeuf glanced at Courfeyrac and smiled widely. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.” He switched his gaze back to Combeferre. “He’s with the First Gentleman, but I don’t think they’d mind being disturbed, especially for this. Go on in.”

Combeferre knocked on the door before pushing it open, smiling at the sight of Grantaire sitting on Enjolras’s lap behind the desk in the Oval Office, whispering something that had Enjolras grinning rather wickedly. “Mr. President,” Combeferre said loudly. “I have someone you haven’t seen in awhile.”

He stood aside for Courfeyrac, who smiled nervously as he walked into the office. “Holy shit, so this is what it looks like,” he said, before quickly adding, “I mean, it’s very good to see you, Mr. President. Mr. — uh — Mr. First Gentleman?”

Grantaire looked up at him, his smile fading. “You can call me sir,” he said coolly.

Courfeyrac’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed nervously. “Right. Sir. Of course.”

For a moment, Grantaire let him sweat, but then he broke into a grin and got off from Enjolras’s lap to come give Courfeyrac a hug. “How the hell have you been? We’ve missed you around here!”

Enjolras stood as well to hug Courfeyrac just as warmly. “We really have missed you,” he assured Courfeyrac, sitting back down in his chair and pulling Grantaire back onto his lap. “It has not the been the same without you here.” He paused and glanced at Grantaire, who nodded, before saying, “In fact, why don’t you come to Camp David this weekend? We’d be off the record, of course, but Max, Marianne, and Justin will all be there, and I know they’d love to see you.”

“That should work for me,” Courfeyrac said easily. “I have to run it by the paper, of course, but it shouldn’t be a problem.” Enjolras nodded and turned his head slightly as Grantaire whispered something to him, and Courfeyrac turned to Combeferre to ask in an undertone, “Tell me again why they named their third child Justin?”

Combeferre hid his laugh as he whispered back, “Grantaire put his foot down on naming their kids after revolutionary figures in France when Enjolras decided he wanted to name their second son Saint-Just. So he became Justin instead.”

From his position on Enjolras’s lap, Grantaire watched Courfeyrac and Combeferre laughing quietly together. “I can see what’s happening, and they don’t have a clue,” he sang quietly to Enjolras, who shook his head.

“I am issuing you an Executive Order to stay out of it,” he said, mock-sternly, though he added, “And not just because of the bet we have riding on this.” He kissed Grantaire’s temple before saying loudly, “So, Courfeyrac, I assume you didn’t  _just_  come here to catch up for old time’s sake. Which of my policies is your newspaper going to tear down this week?”

Courfeyrac smiled at Enjolras. “Well, actually, I did have a few things that I wanted to discuss with you…”

Grantaire slipped off Enjolras’s lap and told them all, “Fascinating though this conversation will  _undoubtedly_  be, I have more important things to deal with, like picking out the napkin rings for the Prime Minister’s State Dinner. So if you’ll excuse me.”

He headed over to the door to head back to the residence, but paused to look back at where Courfeyrac and Enjolras had started talking again, specifically watching Combeferre, unable to avoid noticing the look on Combeferre’s face as he watched Courfeyrac. And when Grantaire turned to leave, it was with a small, victorious smile on his own face.

* * *

 

Courfeyrac whistled off-key to himself as he strolled towards Combeferre’s office, giving the few people he passed on his way an easy smile. He stopped when he saw Jehan frowning down at a piece of paper, pen in hand. “Why, Jean Prouvaire, as I live and breathe.”

Jehan looked up and grinned, capping his pen before bounding up to give Courfeyrac a hug. “What the hell are you doing here?” His expression got mock-serious. “Members of the press aren’t supposed to be back here unattended, you know.”

“I know. I’m on my way to see Combeferre.”

Jehan’s smile faded slightly. “Ah. How is that going?”

Courfeyrac shrugged, his own smile fading as well. “About as well as I can expect, I suppose. I can’t blame him for being mad at me, after all, not after everything I put him through.” He sighed before shaking his head and smiling again. “But enough about me and my problems, tell me how the Deputy White House Communications Director is doing! You’re chief speechwriter, aren’t you?”

Jehan blushed and waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, I’ve been known to pen a few things here and there. A statement, a speech, the State of the Union address…”

“Good job on that one, by the way,” Courfeyrac told him, sincerely. “They’ll be talking about that address for years.”

Blushing even harder, Jehan shook his head. “It’s all Enjolras’s delivery. He does more with my words than I could ever hope for.” He cleared his throat and took a step back. “But I’m delaying you from your meeting with Combeferre.” He hesitated before adding, “I’m rooting for the two of you to work things out.”

Courfeyrac smiled slightly. “So I am.”

He started to leave, but Jehan called after him, “Combeferre likes goldfish.”

“What?” Courfeyrac asked, frowning at him.

“Goldfish. He can’t get enough of them. You know what they say about the way to a guy’s heart…”

Courfeyrac shook his head, because he couldn’t remember the way to a guy’s heart involving a small fish, but nonetheless gave Jehan a dazzling smile. “I will try that. Thanks!” He started to head towards Combeferre’s office, then paused, changing direction. He had some time before the first briefing that morning. Just enough time, perhaps, to run up the pet store…

* * *

 

A knock sounded on Combeferre’s door and he looked up, surprised to see Courfeyrac standing there. “Are we knocking now?” Combeferre asked. “That is a pleasant surprise.”

“Well, speaking of pleasant surprises, I have a gift for you.” Courfeyrac stepped into the office to set a small bowl with a goldfish inside of it on Combeferre’s desk.

Combeferre stared at it. “What is it?”

Courfeyrac’s smile faded slightly. “It’s a goldfish. Jehan…Jehan said you liked goldfish.”

Combeferre couldn’t help himself — he laughed, throwing his head back as he did. Courfeyrac stared at him, completely baffled, until Combeferre wiped his eyes and managed between wheezes of laughter, “The crackers, Courf. The small, orange cheese crackers you have at a party?”

Courfeyrac looked stricken for a moment before shaking his head. “Well, you know, I’m not one hundred percent sure I was supposed to know that.” Combeferre just kept laughing, and Courfeyrac pursed his lips and picked the bowl up off of Combeferre’s desk. “Fine. Now I’ve got a goldfish.”

“What? No. Give it to me,” Combeferre commanded, holding out his hands. “You’ll kill it.”

“Are you saying that I can’t take care of a goldfish?” Courfeyrac asked, mock-insulted. “I took care of Pontmercy for a whole semester, and look how he turned out.” He paused before amending, “Ok, possibly not the greatest example…”

Still, he handed the bowl over to Combeferre, who set it almost reverently on his desk, and told him, “The name’s Saint-Just.”

Combeferre looked up at him, surprised. “The fish?”

“Yeah. I figured if Enjolras couldn’t have a kid named Saint-Just, you may as well have a fish named it.”

For a moment, Combeferre looked like he might laugh again, but he settled for standing and telling Courfeyrac, a little gruffly, “Come here.”

He pulled Courfeyrac into a hug, and both men relaxed against each other, the gesture at once achingly familiar and completely foreign. Then Combeferre kissed Courfeyrac’s cheek and told him, his voice a little husky, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Courfeyrac whispered, not pulling away.

They stared at each other for a long moment, then Courfeyrac leaned in and kissed Combeferre on the lips. As it was a kiss two year’s in the making, it was fiery and passionate while also being desperate and more loving than either of them thought they could be with each other. It was just like old times — Combeferre’s hands seemed to know exactly where to rest on Courfeyrac’s hips, just as Courfeyrac remembered how to cup Combeferre’s cheek just right.

Then, sooner than either wanted it to end, it did, Combeferre pulling away and saying quietly, “We can’t.”

“Combeferre—” Courfeyrac started, his voice just on this side of desperate, and Combeferre shook his head.

“Not because I don’t have feelings for you, because I think that just been proven otherwise. Not because I don’t trust you, even though that is something I’m going to have to work on. But I’m the Press Secretary, and you’re a White House correspondent. It’s the mother of all conflicts of interests.” He shook his head and squeezed Courfeyrac’s hands before stepping away. “We can’t.”

Courfeyrac shook his head, undeterred. “And if I didn’t stay? I asked for a different assignment initially anyway. I could get a reporting job elsewhere in DC, not covering the White House.”

Combeferre shook his head as well. “No, Courf, I don’t…I don’t want you to do anything drastic. Not for me. You’re a damned good White House correspondent, and I won’t see you throw that away.” He took a deep breath and met Courfeyac’s eyes. “In two years, if Enjolras decides not to run for reelection, we can reevaluate. I’m certainly not going to have the time on my hands to go out and fall in love with someone else, and I doubt you are either. But this, what just happened — two years. You’ve got to give me two years.”

Nodding slowly, Courfeyrac asked quietly, “In love with someone else? So you still love me?”

“Somedays I wish I didn’t,” Combeferre said honestly, giving Courfeyrac a small smile. “But yeah. I still love you.”

“Then I can give you two years,” Courfeyrac promised. He hesitated before leaning in and kissing Combeferre once more on the lips, a gentle kiss this time, soft and sweet. “Once more for the road.” He started to head to the door, then paused and nodded at the fishbowl on Combeferre’s desk. “Take care of Saint-Just for me. And I’ll see you at the briefing.”

Combeferre nodded. “I will see you there.”

Courfeyrac left, and Combeferre stared at the fishbowl on his desk, a small smile lingering on his face, before he gathered his notes to get ready for the briefing.

* * *

 

Combeferre took a deep breath and glanced down at his folder again, running over his notes one last time. He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned, surprised to find Courfeyrac there, smiling at him. “Big day, huh?”

“You should be out with the press pool,” Combeferre said.

Courfeyrac raised an eyebrow at him. “What, you can’t even confirm to me that Enjolras is about to announce his reelection bid?”

Combeferre half-smiled and shook his head. “Off the record, I can only tell you that I’m honestly very sorry that I’m going to have to reject your advances for another four years.”

Courfeyrac laughed. “It’s ok. I’ve gotten used to the subtle flirting, the way you say my name when you call on me in the press room.” He winked roguishly, and Combeferre rolled his eyes. Then Coufeyrac’s voice softened as he told him, “Look, I made you wait two years, and I’ve waited two years. What’s four more years in the grand scheme of things?”

A conflicted look flit across Combeferre’s face, and he shook his head. “I can’t ask you to do that.”

“You’re not asking me,” Courfeyrac said steadily. “I’m offering.” He leaned in and kissed Combeferre briefly, running his thumb over Combeferre’s cheekbone. “Four more years.”

Combeferre closed his eyes and nodded, letting his forehead rest against Courfeyrac’s. “Four more years.”

Courfeyrac pulled away reluctantly and managed a smile. “Anyway, I better get out there.” He patted Combeferre’s ass. “Go get ‘em, tiger.”

Combeferre shook his head and laughed, watching Courfeyrac walk away fondly before turning back to his notes. Four more years. If they could make it through that, they could make it through anything.


End file.
